The Kingdoms of Dust by Amanda Downum

across the sea: He was coming home, with Isyllt.
    “Can you control her? I would rather not see a repeat of Symir.”
    He drew a breath, tasting the fragrance of rosemary and shea butter in Samar’s hair. Pregnancy had altered her scent, made it richer and sharper, more pungently female. She had taken to wearing perfumes outside her own rooms.
    “I believe I can trust her,” he said slowly. “She needs work and safety—we can provide those.” It was a familiar bargain to both of them; he had given Samar the throne, she gave him shelter and purpose.
    “Safety?” She snorted indelicately. “You know better than that.”
    Asheris shrugged. “I am in her debt.”
    The corners of her eyes creased, flecks of amber and tourmaline glinting in her irises. “As I am in yours.” She stroked her knuckles across his cheek, a warmth of affection behind the teasing gesture. The touch lingered. Were he mortal, she might solve her problems by naming him consort. Just as well, then, that his nature made him anathema. His appreciation of women was in the main aesthetic.
    Her hand fell. “We are all tangled in webs of alliance and debt, my friend. Never think I don’t value all you’ve done for me.” She tugged the curtain back, and morning sunlight clove the space between them. “But I won’t allow Assar to be threatened by foreign sorcerers any more than warlords or your desert storms. Bring Iskaldur here, and offer her all you wish, but keep hold of her leash.”
     
    Asheris spent the rest of the morning pacing his chambers. He had found only a few more records of the ghost wind since his search began, most redundant or too muddled to be of use. His hunt for rumors of Jirair’s quiet men had fared no better.
    He hadn’t yet taken his questions to the university mages, starting instead with the city’s black-market sorcerers. Sand witches and unlicensed vinculators, people who bound little spirits for sale, who would bind your enemy’s soul in a bottle for the right price. He had found answers there, of a sort.
    “A myth,” one old woman said, waving a gnarled hand in dismissal. “Stories to frighten foolish thieves and wizards. ‘Keep your head down or the quiet men will find you.’ It’s all nonsense.”
    “Don’t say that name!” hissed the next man, a shriveled, pallid sorcerer who might not have left his basement room in years from the look of him. “They have eyes everywhere. They know.” His own eyes had narrowed then, and he spat a warding spell. “This is a test, isn’t it? Get out.”
    The last man Asheris spoke to had been saner, thankfully, but no more helpful. “Certainly I’ve heard of these quiet men.” The aging thief-keeper smiled and winked. “My wife’s cousin’s boy did a job for them once. They paid him enough to retire, but whatever he saw that night turned his hair white.”
    Asheris had asked no more since, lest he draw attention to his inquiry. Whatever these quiet men truly were, though, he had to believe they existed. And that they knew his secrets.
    When the noon prayers rose across the city, pricking him like thorns, he abandoned his fruitless paper chase and fled to the garden. The palace temple had changed incense; it drifted through the halls and arcades, filling his head with cinnamon and clove and bitter patchouli. Not an unpleasant scent, but cloying in its strength. He was grateful to reach the open air of the garden.
    The royal gardens were lush and green despite the baking summer heat. Fig trees and pomegranates shaded manicured lawns, along with willows and sprawling tamarisk shrubs. Fountains fed fish-stocked ponds, and exotic lizards and small furred beasts from every end of the empire prowled the grounds. The last tame lioness had died months ago and not yet been replaced. Asheris was just as glad—watching wild things grow fat and slow in gilded collars struck too close to home.
    He had thought to be alone in the rising heat; Samar sometimes entertained her